Mark Weir sits in his room,
Ringed with candles, hears the car
Doors slam and the ignition catch,
His parents leaving home. He grins
And lights the pipe kept hidden
Between mattress and bedsprings,
And for a moment, in matchlight,
Looks very old. Then he leans
To the stereo to turn it up
And seems what he is—nineteen,
Stoned, and bored. An unlikely hero,
But heroes are picked, not born, and he'll
Do as well as any will.

Besides,

He has a sister, and he knows Stella Baird,
Or who she is, and his parents drink
A little too much for their health
And leave him alone enough for his,
And tonight he's taken acid
And he waits to get off while
The record spins, and the candles flicker
With his breath—the long red dance
Of light and air, shadow and mind—
Cepheid pulse of quickening time
And space. Mark sits, entranced,
Tastes the liquor

of immortality—exquisite—


Of course it's only spit.
The candles … pulsing stars
infinitely far, ancient
and beautiful … there is no help
there, there's no help there. I
am Mark, I remember that, remember
a wind it's warm
I live on the third floor
and I sing a sad song
by the stairs. And drink. It's
warm, tastes warm
tastes so sweet and warm
I swallow and I

am happy.


Is this my life? 


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